The Circuit

He had a feeling that something important was just at the periphery of his perception. A bit of knowledge, the lingering adrenaline of a traumatic event. He could feel it in his heart that beat just a few steps too quickly and in the cold sweat that crawled across his back and shoulders.

As if traveling between worlds, he felt himself rise, realized suddenly that he had been unconscious, and with an involuntary shudder, his eyes came open and he rose to a seated position.

The space was dark, the only light coming from a hidden and sorely impotent source in the far corner. By its hazy glow he could make out the bench he sat on, and one across the aisle. The rest of the space held floor to ceiling arrays of lock boxes. He scratched his head unknowingly, trying to remember where he was and what he was doing there. The room jumped suddenly, accompanied by a metallic wail and at once he realized that wherever he was, it was aboard a moving vehicle. A rhythmic cha cha cha cha cha breached his still waking senses. The sound had been there for as long as he could remember, and continued on unbroken, but he was just becoming conscious of it and he knew it to be the sound of a train. The car rocked again, another squeal of rubbing brakes or groaning track. He’d been sitting still doing nothing for way too long. That knowledge dragged him to his feet and propelled him towards the forward door.

He thought it odd that he couldn't remember how long he’d been awake. It felt like only moments and he knew that was right. He also knew that it had been days, and years. He remembered nothing before that feeling and the cold sweat. Not even himself.

The door parted silently and he burst into the next car. Darkness suffocated him and he pulled back into the pale light. His hand reached instinctively for a duty belt, the fingers clutching the shaft of a flashlight. He deftly hit the button washing the next car in an impossibly bright spray of light. More lock boxes, floor to ceiling, the only difference being the absence of two benches. Forty feet ahead stood the next door to the next car. He ran for it. He wondered what else the duty belt held. He wondered how he'd come to be wearing it, how his fingers knew exactly what it contained and where the items were located when his conscious mind could not. He wanted to stop and check himself; to strip the belt and the clothes, empty the pockets and ease his spiraling mind. He could only run faster, knowing that precious time was wasting, but not why that time was so precious.

Breath came hard now, his lungs spasming for more air, tongue lolling over parched lips. His legs burned with the strain. He lost track of the cars, each one the same monotonous space, his flashlight dancing over the dull gray lock boxes, the hiss of the next door opening, repeat. He kept running.

Just as he was sure his body would collapse from sheer exhaustion, the door ahead parted and a warm glow of reds and oranges beckoned to him. The flashlight fell from his hand, shedding unnecessary weight, stretching his reserves enough to power himself through the final door. He found himself in the engine. To his left and right were panels of gauges, dials, and switches, all with their own little lights and back glow. A few flickered green, but the overwhelming red tide that swept the panels made his heart drop. He didn't know why. He just knew it meant trouble. He approached the lone chair at the front of the engine.

“Hello?” he called out, his dry throat barely managing to eek a scratchy croak. There was no response. The chair was a big thing. More than capable of hiding a person from his view he told himself. He ignored the inner voice that whispered “You'd see their feet below.” It was simply an impossibility that there was no one in control of the train. Yet wasn't it also an impossibility that he found himself here, void of memory, identity, and any sense of time, while a disembodied power guided his muscles through no conscious thought of his own?

He sprung around the edge of the seat, as if moving too slowly would give the conductor an opportunity to escape. He stood coiled, his nerves taught and ready to spring, and looked down on the empty chair. He screamed. It wasn't a cry of fear but something more akin to desperation. Incredulity and anger mixed, rising from his diaphragm and passing over desiccated vocal chords.

The muscle memory retook control, leaving his mind to scream in silence. His head panned the instruments, landing on a flashing red indicator. He flicked the switch and in response a robotic voice crackled through a speaker buried in the ceiling.

“Collision imminent in fifteen miles. Collision imminent in fifteen miles. Please deploy brakes. Collision imminent in…”

He silenced the foreboding voice, his omnipotent hands grazing the controls. He gave up questioning. Somehow his body knew what to do and letting it work was the only option left. His hand drew back on a lever. The steady growl of the engine tapered away and settled at a deep chug. He caught a glimpse of the speedometer which hovered just above eighty two miles per hour. Less than twelve minutes to impact by his calculations. His left hand lunged for a second lever and pulled back hard. Another light flashed red on the console and his stomach lurched when he read the label below the indicator. “Brake failure.”

He waited for his hands to do their magic, but for a long moment nothing happened. “Ten minutes to impact!” he shouted at himself, but still his hands acted as if they no longer knew what to do. Finally his fingers made for the duty belt, pulled a multitool and opened it revealing a screwdriver. He was skidding to a stop in front of a panel at the back of the engine. Pulling one silver screw, a metal panel fell away and he was staring at a nest of wires. All the colors were there, but all the colors weren't enough so some of the wires held two, three, or even four colors, all spiraling around in a dizzying maze. His right index finger was running the length of the panel, checking for a solid connection at an array of copper terminals. All intact. His feet shuffled to the next panel in the row. Another silver screw hit the floor. This appeared to be a fuse box. His fingers swapped the screwdriver for a pair of needle nose pliers that extended from the center of the multitool. The invisible hand pulled his face in for a close look, scanning each tiny piece for anything out of place. A bit of melted plastic, a blackened fuse or even a crack in the filament. He knew with sick certainty that the time to impact sat somewhere around five minutes now.

What should have taken him twenty minutes to find, ended up jumping out at him after only a few seconds. He had the distinct feeling that his eyes had been given a hint of what they were looking for. The pliers were pinching down on a yellow fuse, and then pulling it free from its seat in the panel. He dropped the blackened fuse to the floor as his feet once again bolted to a new location. In a drawer, he found a divider, and inside that he found the fuses. “Two minutes to impact,” his inner voice screamed as he thumbed through the fuses for a matching yellow one.

“Bingo!” This time he shouted out loud, and again cringed at the pathetic sound of his voice.

As he turned for the fuse panel, he caught a glimpse through the front windshield. It was dark out there. Very early morning if he had to guess. Something fell from the sky. Snow, maybe. Was it winter? The tail end of his glance caught something else too; a single red strobe light, out ahead on the track.

Impact imminent. His feet stopped moving. The fuse fell to the floor. Even if he made it to the panel, even if he managed to replace the fuse in the next sixty seconds, one bit of jargon bounced around in his empty head. This train needed three miles to come to a stop. He turned to face the windshield and watched the red strobe light grow ominously from the gloom.

He counted out loud. “Three, two, one ” then closed his eyes.

He had a feeling that something important was just at the periphery of his perception. A bit of knowledge, the lingering adrenaline of a traumatic event. He could feel it in his heart that beat just a few steps too quickly and in the cold sweat that crawled across his back and shoulders.